Post by Mr. C on Mar 15, 2009 22:45:44 GMT -5
X.
“So the plan was set, Oleg would be the first sacrifice to the God of Midgaard.”
The battle horn sounded, piercing through the night, and the war drums boomed. But it was not these warnings that drove the sleeping legions from their slumber. Women and children screamed out through the darkness, crying in terror and trying to hide. Viking or not, these were the ones who were not battle hardened, they were not used to the fires of war. A hostile ship had reached land, the rare occurrence where the Vikings were the ones being raided. The tombstone houses that lined the cemetery path towards the Mead Hall were quickly lit a blaze, with women and children scattered at their doorways, their guts torn asunder. The survivors, the wounded, the young and the quick all the same struggled up the path of death towards the one safe place, the mead hall. But the brave and the fearless, the warriors, they ran in the opposite direction to take on those who had braved to face the Vikings on their home turf.
The Firm attacked the Viking on his home turf last week, in The Suicide Zone. No matter what that coward Xplode would like to think, that arena is Brett Cross’ play land and no one else’s. But, when Xplode sent his henchman out to do his dirty work, to make sure his pretty face stayed pretty so he could continue being nothing more than a figurehead champion, he made a horrible, horrible mistake. The men got the better of him, sure, because Cross still had a little respect for EUW’s father. He wouldn’t believe in a hundred years he’d stoop so low in a contest like that. Sadly, all of that respect and all of that trust was lost. Sabora, Vincent and even the wrinkly has-been Terry Jones all proved to be manlier than Xplode; a sad excuse for a man who is, again, nothing more than a poser and a figurehead. And through it all, was the job fulfilled? Sure, Xplode won, but did he do much more than piss of a sleeping giant? Ask yourself, is that fulfilling the job you set out to do?
Heading in the opposite direction, in to the tides of war was “The Norse Hammer”. He pulled the blade from his waist, unsheathing it with a flourish and running one of the mercenaries at work through as he did. The Vikings were outnumbered 3-1, but the odds did not mean much. The men they fought were cowards and untrained, over-paid mercenaries who barely could hold up the weapons they were outfitted with. And as Cross and the Viking horde continued to fight their way to the beaches, saving those who hid in the shining Mead Hall, the source of their opposition was seen. The large ship that had visited weeks earlier: Oleg’s trading vessel was anchored not far off shore with continued ranks of mercenaries rushing from its deck. But the ship was far different now, and certainly taken more seriously. Now the mermaid figurehead no longer resembled a mermaid. Instead, it was in the likeness of Hel, the goddess of the Underworld that led the ship through the seas and straight to the Vikings’ homeland. She, too, could apparently be bought off by the father’s enormous wealth and faux “power”.
Cross and his comrades continued to battle their way to the sands, fending off the puny mercenaries with ease. Cross lopped off the arm of an attacker, hacking through the ball socket of his shoulder with horrific spew of blood. The soldier cried out and fell to the side, and as Cross turned from the grizzly sight he bashed the ornamented hand-guard of Brandrwulf up in to the nose of another man, the cartilladge sliding with ease right up into his brain, sending him sprawled out to the side as well. All around Cross the Vikings were killing off this joke fodder with similar ease, not a one of them troubled at all by the blitzkrieg of their ambush. The tides of war stretched far in every direction, with each surrounding battle as graphic as the one Brett engaged in. They pressed further, swatting away the flies that they were, joking as they continued, until they finally made it to the beaches. The Viking horde fanned out to take on stragglers and check on the wounded in the village, but Cross stood across the beach from three warriors dressed in the finest of golden armor. They, too, were nothing more than paid mercenaries. But they were ready to fight, and their stances showed they had fought before, and the looks in their eyes showed they weren’t as interested in their reward as they were in the glory of killing The God of Midgaard. “The Norse Hammer” frowned, knowing it was a tall order he stood up against.
Cross dug his foot in, and twirled Brandrwulf about in his hand, specks of gore flicking off from the flourish before he held it tight with a two-handed grasp. Then, as soon as he was set, the three warriors ran in, willing to take down Cross all at once. The first to attack was a young fellow, brash with flowing gold locks. His golden armor was adorned with a V, and he fought quickly, trying to take down Cross fast. He was the one to reach Brett first and swung hard, a rookie’s mistake but not a costly one. Hammer dodged it and then turned to look out for the second man to approach. This one was the oldest of the group, a man whose face was scarred over and what was left of his hair was strikingly white, his armor was worn but just as shiny and far more decorated then either of his counterparts. He knew just what he was doing and kept his form tight and precise. The older warrior jabbed with a spear, and Cross barely managed to sidestep the attack before bashing down on his hand with the pommel of Brandrwulf and shoving him aside and in to “V.” No sooner did he dispatch the two of them did he have to turn and, with blade held high above his head, block a large jumping attack from the third warrior. He was between the others in age, but shaved his head completely bald, with part of it and its face covered in an oriental tattoo. His style was far more artsy than the others, with the aggression of “V” and the precision of the older man. Cross growled as his blade interlocks with the artist fighter, and their eyes met, both filled with intensity.
Brett then shoved forward, pushing his foe backwards and turned back to the others. They came at him together, and Brett had no chance but to dodge. With their strikes syncronised, there was nothing The Hammer could do but keep back pedaling, looking for an opening. But, as he kept avoiding the strikes, the third fighter came up from behind and slashed hard through Cross’ back and side. With a yell, as the cold steel tore open his flesh and spilled the warm red juice from his body, Cross fell forward at the feet of his combatants. The numbers game finally caught up with even the God of Midgaard, and he fell to his hands and knees before them.
“Well, well, well. That wasn’t so tough, was it?” The brash, youngest warrior said to the others with a loud, cocky chuckle. He smoothed the hair from his face and smirked down at the fallen God. They all smirked down at him, proud at the feat.
“I would certainly say it wasn’t. Oleg will love to hear how easily his son fell!”
“Ha! Some excuse for a warrior, he would have been better off being in his father’s business. I barely even broke a sweat!”
The three warriors stood over Cross, their gazes all admiring their handy work, the massive gash that shone through to Cross’ spine as well as through and between his ribs. Had it not been for Cross’ sheer size, the blow would have cut him clean in half. Despite the gut-wrenching sight, they laughed and continued their taunts as they stood above Brett, whose life was slowly draining from his body. The youngest warrior picked up Brandrwulf from the dirt and looked it over, turning it in his hand.
“Quite the blade! Definitely fit for a “God” like yourself, Brett.” The young man put emphasis on his name, for he knew it was simply more way to apply salt to the deathly wounds.
“I’m sure it will make quite the prof-“
But before the taunting could continue from “V”, his mouth pooled up with blood and his eyes rolled back in his head. And there stood Glaeg behind the brash young warrior, holding the handle of a large sword the likes of which had ran through one side of the mercenary and out the other. He slid it back out with a sickening squish and pushed the warrior forward. Cross grimaced as he let out a gurgled laughter filled with blood and went to stand, but no sooner could he speak than did he witness another horrendous sight.
Before Cross could even get to his feet, the artist warrior ran forward and with a leaping, arching swing, brought his long sword right through Glaeg’s throat. Cross’ friend’s head rolled to one side, and then fell backwards before the film of skin gave way to the weight of it and fell to the ground. As Glaeg’s head fell, so did The God of Midgaard. His home was destroyed, his friend was dead, and the life had drained almost completely out of him. As he hit the ground, he looked about him, struggling to focus on something through blurry vision that was not a sight of death and destruction, and that’s when he saw his father, with the two warriors carefully escorting the third, retrieve Brandrwulf and without a word head back to their boat, leaving the Viking homeland to burn.
Cross was certainly not alone last week, but still he fell to The Firm’s combined might. This week, with lesson learned, things would assuredly be different. Brett Cross now knew that he had to watch his back at all times, and there were very few that would really stand up for him. Despite all the Vikings fighting around him, there was but one man to come to his aid, Glaeg. This Monday Cross luckily had such a man in MdA, one that would stand up for him when all others would not. Surely the two would spar, they were pitted against each other, but most assuredly they both had their sights more firmly set on Sabora than one another Brett was determined to make his own point this Monday, and with an ally at his side in the coming match, he could do just that. Last week, Cross was beaten by The Firm and beaten badly. This week would be far different, as Cross had every intention to rise from his beating and stand up to the father and his henchmen.
“Stop!” Cross yelled out with his dying breath, and his father heard him loud and clear over the ensuing fires and war drums. Oleg smirked as he heard the call and turned back to his son. He paced over to him slowly, and Cross watched, as if every step was done in slow motion, each pace carefully planned and deliberately stretched out for nothing more than the thrill of prolonging his son’s anguish. Hammer kept his eyes locked on his father’s boots as they made their way towards him, and then all the way through his father crushing his skull beneath the sole of his boot.
As the impact came down on Hammer’s face, he awoke with a start in his warm cot in the Viking homeland and immediately reached out for Brandrwulf. He found the designed and embroidered handle on the stand next to his bed right where he left it, and he pulled it close to him, holding it tight to his chest. He frowned in to the night’s darkness, for a man of his size and prestige he didn’t like these new feelings, these new feelings of helplessness and insecurity. It had been weeks since Oleg had came for a visit, and there were no signs yet that his father would return, but Cross still felt nervous. And if that wasn’t enough, this dream was nothing new. It was something that had been recurring since the day Oleg came.
The attacks last week didn’t help Cross’ feelings on safety. Even in his playground he could not be safe, even at home there was someone there to attack him. Last week, Cross was cost a match because of those puny mercenaries. The bullshit paid off grunts for a no-name weasel who does nothing more than smile and look pretty. He was no fighter, and the lot of ‘em only have their numbers to rely on, because it sure as hell isn’t their skill. Divided, Cross could take them all out. In fact, he had just such a plan for this week. Sabora was his opponent, along with MdA as well to be technical. But, Cross’ cross-hairs were set on Chris Sabora, the revolving retirement door. For a man who used to think so much on respect and honor, he was nothing more than a chump last week, a cowardly piece of trash who would do anything for that joke of a champion Xplode. This week, Cross planned to return last MNS’ favor to Sabora tenfold and make the poor bastard wish he’d stayed out of the squared circle. Because after last week, Cross learned his lesson. It’s not of his nature to sit back and let other people walk over him. Not now, and not ever. If anything, this Pure Title makes him even more of a walking target. He just needed that little extra push to be reminded that he needs to always be the one to take the offensive.
Cross sat up from his bed, the frown now changed to a furrowed brow of determination as he placed Brandrwulf in to the belt at his waist and headed off to find Glaeg. Glaeg wasn’t far, a few huts down, and Cross rushed right over, knowing the two of them had no time to waste. Cross knew that he needed to finish things with Oleg, and finish them fast before he could act. Because, despite his knowing that a dream is just a dream, he still felt uncomfortable having his father out there with any time to plan and scheme. Oleg started this whole ordeal by visiting Cross, and not vice versa. Those cowards last week started the war with Cross, and not the other way around. But for both accounts, Cross wanted to be the one to finish it, and the Viking knew but one way to do so.
“Psst, Glaeg my lad. Wake up. We’re ‘eaded out for another mission.” Cross shook Glaeg gently from his sleep before tossing a sword and a shield on top of him.
“Ach, Hammer. What d’ye mean we’re ‘eaded out? It’s nay even close to bein’ light out!”
“C’mon Glaeg, I’ll tell ye on the way. Know it’s important, and it involves bloodshed, what else d’ye need to know, lad?”
Glaeg thought about it for a moment, then smirked and grabbed up his belongings and in no time at all, the two had shoved off of the shores of their homeland once more to head out in to the dark seas. Headed out in to battle, to bring the fight to their front just like the Vikings always do to ensure their safety and the safety of their loved ones. Cross had already seen death as a result of his inability to act. The Village of Jotunloke still was a horrific memory for him to live down, whether he’d “avenged” it or not. And last week, it was Cross’ inability to look out for himself that cost him a victory and gave him a severe beating. Now, things were different and if any of them wanted to take Brandrwulf, and the lot of ‘em surely do, Cross vowed to defend it with his life. For some, last week proved Cross was human. But, human or not, this one will always be ready for a fight. And, human or God, if it was possible to defeat Brett Cross on any terms, was the collateral damage worth it? The Firm would soon put that question in to deeper thought if last week hadn’t hammered the point home hard enough. Because this week, Cross was shipping off for battle in to the dark of night once again. And not alone either, he has his Glaeg MdA at his side. Sure, the rules state triple threat and the two of them may have a go at eachother for the fun of it, but Cross’ main concern was fending off Sabora. Win or lose, this week will be about making a point. A point to those who think they deserve a shot at him and The Pure Title, and those who think they can attack The God of Midgaard from behind and get away with it. If you want to test a God, try it. If you want to wrest Brandrwulf from his grasp, be my guest. But now, for any of you who cross paths with “The Norse Hammer” Brett Cross, be prepared for his wrath. For the beast has been awoken.
